Letters to his Heart
by World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady
Summary: When John is about to commit suicide three years after the death of his flatmate, Mycroft gives him Sherlock's laptop. What John finds changes his life forever as he discovers the truth, both about the fall and his feelings. Johnlock. One shot.


**So this is my first Sherlock fanfic and the second fanfic I have ever wrote so please keep that in mind while reading this! Hope you enjoy! :)**

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One day, John sees Sherlock everywhere. On the walk to the hospital, he is a street vender. In the hospital, he is a janitor. At the café, he is sitting in the back, reading a book about bees. On the walk home, he is the jogger that bumps into John. When he turns to apologize, it is in the deep silky voice of the consulting detective. John just nods at him and continues walking home, unable to say a word, reasoning with his shattered mind that no, dead people don't come back to life and bump into you in the street and yes you were just imagining the man to have the same gait, voice, and air of the man you cared for more than anyone.

The last thought strikes closer to home than John has allowed himself to think in a long time. Only just after the fall did he allow himself to think that maybe, just maybe he was in love with his psychotic (no, sociopathic) flat mate. After he had let himself come to that conclusion, he had buried that thought away, hopefully never to reach the surface of his conscience mind ever again.

The fact that this man could bring this thought back to life is something that strikes John as an action Sherlock himself could only do. At this, he nearly fell over. Suppose his best friend, his flat mate, the man who essentially saved his life (and wrecked it), was actually alive? Suppose this man was alive and well, while John suffered, what then was he supposed to do?

John shook his head. No. These thoughts wouldn't solve anything. He tries to mentally bury the thoughts (along with the recurring one that this mental action was something he could have only picked up from Sherlock), and continues his walk back to the flat.

When he arrives at 221B, he decides that he has had enough. He cannot go on without his flatmate there by his side. He gets out his gun, and holds it in his hands. He puts it against the side of his head, and closes his eyes, ready to pull the trigger. He waits. John opens his eyes, resigned. He cannot bring himself to commit suicide. As much as he wishes to join his friend, he lacks the courage to go into the next life. John sighs, resigned, as he limps over to his chair and collapses into it. Embarrassment fills John; why couldn't he bring himself to commit suicide? Didn't he want to return to Sherlock?

Someone knocks on the door. John releases an ambiguous grunt. The person clearly takes this as a "come in", because they open the door, and saunter in. Mycroft.

He sits in Sherlock's chair, and John cannot help but notice how wrong it looks to have anyone but the detective in the seat across from him. It is painful for John to see this man and not hear Sherlock's snide remarks about weight and cake. For a moment, he remembers the time Sherlock went into Buckingham Palace in only a sheet, and a glimmer of happiness stirs in his heart.

"John."

"Mycroft. I'm assuming you knew?"

"That you were going to commit suicide? Yes." Although he says this in his usual sneer, John could have sworn that he detected a note of concern.

"So? What does it matter?"

"I came to give you this." He pulls out a laptop from his bag with a flourish, ignoring John's questions. He takes the laptop and turns it on.

"It's password protected."

"I believe it won't be too hard for you to figure out the password. But I will give you a hint- sentiment." Mycroft rises from the chair, awkwardly pats John's shoulder once, then leaves the flat.

John takes a deep breath. Sherlock can't possibly have locked his computer using a sentimental password. John would've thought the password would have been a variety of numbers and letters. He sighs, maybe Mycroft was right, then types in Irene Adler. This is an incorrect password. The Woman. This is an incorrect password. The Queen. This is an incorrect password. Mummy (?). This is an incorrect password.

He pauses, realization dawning on him. He wouldn't... would he? He types in John, and the computer opens.

The first thing he sees is a file entitled "JOHN". He pulls it open, and sees multiple entries. He huffs, and chooses three to read. He doesn't want to read them all at once; he wants to savor each and every entry. The three he chooses are: one from the day of the funeral, one from the one-year anniversary, and one is two days earlier. He opens the first one.

_Dear John, _

_I am sorry that you have to go through this. It was for you, all of this was to protect you. _

_Moriarty had threatened me. He knew my weaknesses, and he used them to my advantage. He said that he had three snipers ready to shoot you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't jump. He then killed himself to make sure I couldn't avoid my suicide. _

_But what he didn't know was that I had been expecting this for quite some time. So with the help of Molly, Mycroft, and the homeless network, I faked my death. I chose where Moriarty and I would meet so that I would have the upper ground (no pun intended). I made sure that from where you stood, you wouldn't see that I would fall on top of a garbage truck before getting on the ground. The homeless network were supposed to disorient you and cover me in my own blood. And, using a rubber ball, I temporarily stopped my pulse in the arm I knew you would check for a pulse. Mycroft, being the British government, is assisting me in my current case. _

_I am going after Moriarty's web. I don't know how long I will be gone for, but I will return. _

_Please don't do anything rash. _

_Sherlock_

John is stupefied. Of course Sherlock would have a reason for jumping off of the hospital roof, and he feels like a complete idiot for not thinking of this. John also cannot believe that Sherlock risked his life to save him. Sherlock's words from his "note" ring through John's head. _It was just a magic trick. _Of course Sherlock would have tried to explain his actions.

_Dear John, _

_It has been one year since I have "died" and you are grieving with the same passion you were at my funeral. _

_I do not know whether I should be flattered or worried. _

_John as a conductor of light you are unbeatable. Don't stop being fantastic just because I am gone. Live your life, marry a beautiful woman, have children and a dog. Do not waste your life mourning me._

_Sherlock_

John sighs. Sherlock, for all of his hatred of the ignorance of the world, was ignorant of how truly remarkable he was. For a moment, he hesitates. Shouldn't he read the second or third anniversary post first? He almost does, but something draws him to this particular document. John, although nervous for what he will find, opens it and begins reading.

_My dear Watson, _

_I can finally come home. I have taken down his web, and I can come back to you. Is it true that you waited for me? Mycroft says that you haven't moved on, but I hadn't let myself hope that he was right. _

_Just hang on, for me, please. Just hold on. I am coming home as soon as I can. _

_What is this rush of euphoria? The thought of returning to London, no, the thought of returning to you, to home, is what fills me with great happiness. _

_I realize now that I hadn't build an impenetrable wall protecting myself from sentiment. From the moment I met you, the wall began cracking, until all that was left was rubble and the realization that I love you. I, Sherlock Holmes, love John Watson. _

_If anyone had told me four years ago that I would come to care more about a man than I care about my work as a consulting detective, I would have laughed in their face. But now? Now I cannot wait to return to you and beg for forgiveness. I know that I may not ever be truly forgiven, but at least I could see you again. _

_So, please hang on. Don't do anything rash, just hold on. I will see you soon. _

_Your Holmes. _

He is stupefied once again. The sociopath, not only admitting that he possesses emotions, but that he loves John, has rendered him speechless. Delight bubbles through John, leaving him dizzy but hopeful. John had known for a while- always known- that he was in love with his flatmate. Before the fall, he ignored the smallest signs of his love for Sherlock, positive that it was unrequited. After the fall, the grief blinded John, not allowing him to properly deal with his feelings for Sherlock. The only thing he allowed himself to feel about the fall was the pain of watching one's best friend commit suicide while listening to their last words, which were insincere and false. But now? Now that he knew Sherlock felt the same way, that this wasn't unrequited? He was awestruck as he let his feelings for Sherlock overwhelm him, along with the dazzling knowledge that the detective felt the same.

John rereads this document three times. He would reread it again, but his sight is blinded with tears. He is embarrassed and ashamed that he thought of committing suicide. He ponders these thoughts for a few minutes before realizing something. This last letter was from a few days ago, and all through today John had seen Sherlock. Happiness floods John, those people today were actually Sherlock, he hadn't been going crazy.

He rushes out of the flat, and looks around at the street. When his eyes rest on the sidewalk directly across him, he sees Sherlock standing there, a tiny smile on his face.

John smiles- the first real smile since the fall- and runs to his detective.

Sherlock's smile suddenly vanishes. John pauses, vaguely aware that he is in the middle of the street.

"JOHN! MOVE!" Sherlock bellows, all too late, as the cab smashes into John.

* * *

Sherlock is frozen to the ground. He cannot process what is in front of him, for the first time in years. He had just gotten back to London, his self-appointed mission of destroying the remnants of Moriarty's web complete, yet rendered pointless at the sight of his dying friend, and was about to return to his flat.

His legs seem to finally respond to his brain, and he rushes to the body of his best friend. Dignity long forgotten, Sherlock cradles John's body as if it is the most precious thing in the world (which to him it is).

"John! Don't leave me!"

"Oh Sherlock," John groans, coughing a little as he looks up at the consulting detective.

"You are going to be fine John, you will live, you have to!"

"Sherlock! Listen to me! I read your documents."

"John I-"

"Sherlock let me finish! I wanted to tell you that I love you too."

Sherlock grins at John, the familiar euphoria that only he brings rushing through him.

"I love you too." Sherlock says, brushing John's hair away from his face. He had been wanting to do that for so long now.

"I know." John grins, a pained yet ecstatic grin, and reaches his hand up to Sherlock, brushing his face. Sherlock holds John's hand still. He kisses his dying friend's forehead, drinking in the sight of his flatmate. Although he had seen John through cameras and as a passerby on the street, this is the first time in three years that Sherlock has looked upon his friend's face undisguised and in the flesh. He leans back down and presses his forehead against John's, their hands clasped together in John's lap.

They sit there like that, in total silence, for a few more minutes before the life leaves John's eyes and his hand goes limp in Sherlock's.

He doesn't let go of the body, instead Sherlock rests his head gently on John's stomach and weeps.

The words he heard Sally Donavan say multiple times on multiple occasions echo through his brain.

_One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there._

He wants to laugh at the irony, but the only thing that can come out is another sob.

She was wrong, John is (_was_) more than a body.

John was his heart, now his heart was dead, and no miracle could bring him back.

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